Chapter Text
“Oh! Mrs. Detwiler.”
There’d been to the world, and the giddiness of knowing that their Head Offices were on notice to leave them alone in future; perhaps because of that, the reckless exhilaration that ended with their falling into each other’s arms not long after. And not long after that, the absolute necessity of finding a place that would be theirs, and here he was, Aziraphale Fell, householder, mending the latch of his gate – the sea air rusted things a caution – in a lane several quiet turnings off the main road, as his nearest neighbour hove down upon him.
“I promised you this,” she said, extending a hefty ceramic plaque with a truly shocking design of ornate curlicues and things that were vaguely recognizable as flowers, surrounding the painstakingly lettered legend Fell-Crowley. “We fired last week, I just keep forgetting. I'm signed up for Thrown Pottery next, I’ll do you a planter to match.”
“I’m, er, sure it’ll be lovely, Mrs. D.”
“And there’s just the place for it, on your front gate. There’s holes either side, you just need to pop a couple of brads in, gently.”
“Let’s see, this old mallet will be just the thing.”
It was fiddly work, and he’d hear enough from Crowley about the curlicues and blobby pansies, but it was quite sweet of her all the same. He took his time, careful not to break the new ceramic, becoming vaguely aware he’d heard an automobile crunch over the gravel verge behind him. Crowley would pass a remark any second now. He gave a last tap-tap-tap-tap with the mallet.
“Still got it! Imagine that.”
He'd have called it an out of body experience, except that he'd already had that. So like Crowley’s voice – but not –
He looked older, a little the worse for wear, but it was the same man: the one who’d walked beside him down Brewer Street on what, up to then, had been the worst night of Aziraphale's long life. Only now his stance was easy, the creases at the corners of his eyes those of smiles. A glossy Land Rover idled at the far side of the road, shadowy figures within, the tinny sound of a radio drifting through the soft summer air.
“You?”
“Old face, new me."
“You didn’t die,” said Aziraphale.
“Not even a little bit,” the Doctor replied, rocking back on his heels, hands thrust in his pockets. “So it all worked out then? End Of The World and that?”
“I, ah – yes. Yes, it did.”
“It usually does. How’d you manage it?”
“I. Well, I remembered what you said. Almost too late, but I did. I trusted the children.”
The Doctor bent to peer at the legend on the gate plaque. “And here you are, oh, Fell-Crowley, so, happily ever after, then? Nice bit of art.”
“Um, Mrs. Detwiler’s been taking these ceramics classes. Last year it was Quilting, and the year before that Ornamental Birdhouses. I forget the rest.”
“And – here, let’s have a look at that mallet. Barely any wear. Can’t tell you how many times I used that to smack the Fendorf rekerminator.”
“Things used to be made to last,” said Aziraphale.
“Weren’t they just. I mean, look at us." He handed the mallet back. "Well, don’t mean to keep you – just had to stop and see if it was really you – Noble-Temples wanted a birthday outing by the seashore, meant to stop for lunch, took a wrong turning – “
“Noble Temples?”
“Yeah, well, got sort’ve a family now.“
“Your granddaughter? You found her after all this time?”
“Susan?” His face softened for a moment. “Oh, well, granddaughter, term of art at most, best the translation circuit can do. Anyhow, she’s found her own way. Bit too much like me, s’pose. No, I’ve got –”
“Oi! Spaceman! Is it him or not?” The voice was shrill and warm at the same time.
“Be right there! I can come round another time, still have the TARDIS -- they just fancied the drive, hired the Land Rover. Used a bit of psychic paper, got a tidy discount. Donna’s having the time’ve her life driving it. You’d like her.”
“Oh, but – you could stay to lunch with us, I’ve just put shepherd’s pies to cool, there’s plenty –”
“Shepherd’s pie, I love shepherd’s pie. Donna! We’ve got an invitation!”
“Crowley’s just nipped out to Waitrose for some things, come in and get comfortable. I’ll tell you all about it, and – before I forget, just before it all happened, someone named Wilfred Mott asked me to tell you hello.”
The older-yet-younger face blossomed in a smile. “He told me himself.”
“Rose, help Gramps down –”
And from the back of the Land Rover, leaning on the arm of a tall, dark-skinned young woman before shifting his weight to a battered Rollator, emerged the halting, grizzled figure of a man in baggy trousers and braces, huffing impatience at being helped.
“Rose? You found her?”
The Doctor shook his head. “I did, and I didn’t,” he said. “Long story, I’ll tell you. That’s the Rose for our times. Her birthday today.”
“How–?” Aziraphale flapped his hands around his own face, gestured at the Doctor’s.
“Oooh, Time Lord thing, tell you about that too. Kind of recycled this one, then regenerated double, means I get to retire, sort've. Younger edition's off saving everything now."
"But if he's off -- how do you still have your, er, ship?"
"New fellow sorted it. One apiece." The Doctor nudged Aziraphale's toolbag with one trainer-shod toe. "Amazing what you can do with the right mallet. Really decent chap, first time I’ve ever met me that I didn’t slag me off. Might get to like running into myself.”
“In that case –”
For the Bentley had just pulled up, Crowley’s long form already emerging.
“My dear!” called Aziraphale. “We have company – er, you remember the gentleman I told you about, who gave me the idea – you know, when we – “ He waved his hand in front of his face again. “The one with the different faces?”
Crowley stopped dead in the centre of the lane, laden with plastic carrier bags.
“Going to tell me wot he’s doin’ with mine?” he said, looking the Doctor up and down critically.
“On the other hand,” the Doctor murmured.
“Nice try," said Crowley. "Messed up on the hair, though.”
“Just look at it as a compliment, dear.” Aziraphale brushed his lips to his husband’s cheek. “This is the Doctor, and – “
“Woohoo!” crowed a chunky, red-haired woman clambering down from the driving seat. “Shaun, Mum, come on. Blimey, two’ve you. This’ll be insufferable.”
“There, now, Donna, don’t be rude,” said the old man, hitching across the roadway.
“ – and I’ve asked his – his family to stop for lunch, and –”
"I’d known we were having a party, I’d’ve put in an order at the caterers’,” grumped Crowley.
“Just get out the stoneware, and put that big jug of cider in the fridge.”
“Live to serve, me,” Crowley muttered, but then returned the kiss. Aziraphale gazed fondly after him.
“Good to be home, isn’t it?” said the Doctor.
“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, it is.”